Sisterly Devotion
by DaughterOfStarlight
Summary: A thoroughly unexpected associate of Moriarty's shows up at 221 B to make the first move in a  new game. Sherlock Holmes will forever remember her as The Woman. Hinted Sherlock/John, One-sided Sherlock/Jim later on.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello you lovely lot! I banged this out after FINNALY finishing the Great Game last night and it threw me for a loop in the most fantastic of ways. TGG, not my fic ;) Just a bit of a disclaimer, I took liberties with the character of Irene and have made her my own. This has nothing to do with the books or the Robert Downey Jr. movie. Not to spoil anything, but don't crucify me for strange familial ties. All other comments, of course, are utterly fair game and this will be continued into a deliciously twisted misadventure if requested. I crave your feedback. Enjoy!**

Sherlock knew something was amiss the instant he entered his flat. His sharply honed senses immediately picked out the four small personal objects that had been moved slightly or dusted off, noticed the minute upturning of the rug's right corner, caught the lingering scent of rosewater in the air. His steely gaze immediately snapped to the second drawer of the buffet in the hall, found it opened, and noticed the distinct lack of his gun.

So within three and the-quarters seconds of being home, the great detective had already deduced there was an intruder in his house, tried to get the best of them, and resigned himself to a cool,

"Hullo."

A delighted voice came from the next room.

"Oh, you are _good_."

The four words spoke volumes to Sherlock as he carefully entered the main room. The intruder was female, in her early thirties, educated, and hailed from a eastern region of America.

"Picked the locks, did we?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Of course. Not too much trouble, really. Ghastly old things, generic make. They yielded within half a minute. You should look into that."

"I enjoy the odd surprise now and again," Sherlock muttered, turning to face the woman who sat in his armchair. She was spinning his pistol around a nimble finger, smiling lightly at him. Strangely, she wore the tailored suit of a man, dark navy, light pin striping…It was familiar. Hazy traces of adrenaline and chlorine danced through his subconscious, and suddenly the memory hit him hard in the gut. The pool.

Moritarty.

"Nice suit," The detective commented sarcastically.

"You like it? I think's far more my color than his, honestly." The woman smiled infuriatingly, knowing full and well who they were talking about. She wound a finger around one of her brown curls. "It's a clue by the way, the suit. But I'm sure you've already thought of that."

"Indeed I have. I don't see an earpiece; did Moriarty have you memorize your lines instead?"

She unbuttoned her jacket, showing off a shapely figure in menswear but little else. "Sorry; no bomb. That old trick's become tedious for him, especially after your anticlimactic escape from an untimely demise last month. Such a shame the bomb squad showed up when they did, but it was smart thinking of your partner to monitor your website and inform the police that there may be an incident at a certain University pool later that night." She sighed, adjusting her cufflinks. "I'm an associate of Jim's, not a hostage. The game's different this time."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, intrigued despite himself.

"And I'm supposed to figure it out, is that it?"

"Of course. My employer is oh so bored, and he wants to play with his favorite mate."

"Who are you?" He demanded.

"Oh pish, you already know who I am and in relation to whom. At least you should. You're just as pretty as Jimmy told me you'd be so I hope you're as clever."

Sherlock regarded her silently, taking a moment to cross analyze that facts presented and make sure the conclusion he had come to was just that, fact.

"And I here I thought Moriarty wasn't one to share control of his criminal empire, even with family."

A frown touched the corners of the woman's mouth. "He isn't. To him I am merely another pawn, despite our familial bond." She grinned at him, eager to see his deductive prowess at work. "Which is….?"  
>"Sister."<p>

"Clever, you. But only half."

"By blood, then."

"Same father different mother!" She crowed in sing-song, clapping her manicured hands together. "Oh, you are everything Jimmy made you out to be! My brother never lies." She stopped for a moment to consider this statement. "Well, he does…"

"I understand your meaning," Sherlock said curtly. "I want your name."

She uncrossed her legs, rising and crossing the room to him. She looked up at his cold, distant features with an unsettling amount of intimacy and warmth.

"Only if you tell me how you knew. I wasn't supposed to divert from the script, but this is just too good. Tell me what gave me away, then I'll give you my name and one more clue from Jim."

The ghost of a smile touched the corners of his mouth for a fraction of a second. No matter what amount of diress he was under, he always enjoyed the look he got after one of his long-winded explanations.

"Your brother's eyes are a deep black, almost blue in the right lighting. This is uncommon in a Caucasian, especially an Irishman, so I deduce that there is ethnic blood somewhere along the family line. Therefore it is hereditary, and despite the fact that you look nothing like him otherwise, you share this trait with Moriarty. Your accent is American, but with a slightly Irish cadence. What is more telling is that you and Moriarty share some extremely distinctive speech patterns and colloquialisms, probably picked up from either family or each other. Therefore, you came into plenty of contact with your brother during your development in youth, but was raised away from him in…Brooklyn?"

"New Jersey. So very close, my dear."

"Your name."

She winked at him in a very Jim Moriarty way. "Call me Irene."

He filed this useful bit of information away for further contemplation before continuing.

"You said your brother had another clue for me."

She smiled in a positively feline way. "More of a gift really. And he's so terribly upset that he isn't here to give it to you himself."

Sherlock immediately deduced what was coming and tried to dodge it, but before he could move, Irene had clamped her hand around the back of his neck and crushed her mouth against his. Only a few seconds passed before he was able to dislodge her from his person, but it was long enough for him to taste the sedative hidden in her lipgloss and feel it sweep quickly though his faculties. He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the doorway, then went down swearing. He noticed as he hit the ground that there was a slight flicker of unamusement on Irene's face, perhaps even regret

She walked over to his almost-unconscious form, crouching down beside him.

"Eight hours," Irene whispered.

And then, she was simply gone.

**Please remember to review J**


	2. Chapter 2

-1**Felicitations! I know it's been a bit since I last updated, and I'm sorry for the few of you who requested a continuation. Hopefully this chapter will spark some more interest. Love as always to my fans, and please don't forget to review! **

**Alright, roll opening credits!**

John stood in the study with his knuckles pressed to his mouth, watching his flat mate with the usual mixture of confusion and shocked concern.

"You're sure you don't want to sit down?" The doctor asked. "You've been conscious all of three minuets."

"Quite fine," Sherlock mumbled, yanking many a medical text off of John's bookshelf. John didn't bother to remind him that those were alphabetized; it would have no effect on Sherlock's frenzied search whatsoever. John had arrived home with the shopping and nearly killed himself tripping over his flatmate, who was passed out in the doorway. After a quick check of pulse and catching of breath, John had resigned himself to merely watching as Sherlock quickly regained consciousness, sprang to his feet (albeit a bit groggily) and began to mumble fervently to himself. John caught 'Moriarty', 'damn brilliant', 'imposter', and 'better than Christmas'. None of this was encouraging.

Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips, grimacing at some sort of aftertaste and pointing triumphantly to a passage in one of John's medical texts. "Ha! I thought so. Have a look."

The detective bookmarked the page and hurled it at John, who caught it in a bit of a fluster. He flipped open the book as Sherlock snapped open his laptop and began to Goggle like his life depended on it.

"Sherlock, this is a natural toxin. It's used as a sedative in some primitive countries..."

"Exactly!" He crowed, beaming. "No aftereffects, and completely undetectable after a few hours! Pure genius…"

"You seem awfully chipper for someone who just _pulled themselves up off the floor_. What the Hell happened, Sherlock?"

The detective actually took a second to pause from his technological pursuits to make eye contact with John, grinning from ear to ear.

"Christmas is what happened. An utter game-changer!"

John sighed heavily, sitting down. Sherlock was building up to something in his usual melodramatic way, which told John he wouldn't like this 'something.'

"What sort of game-changer?"

"A Woman."

"A Woman? Well that narrows it down. Was she an asylum escapee, perhaps a Mafia embezzler, maybe a spurned lover? On second thought, forget that last one…"

Sherlock shook his head, suddenly engrossed in his internet.

"Sister."

"You don't have a sister."

"Not mine."

John threw his hands up in the air, at a loss. "Who's then?" He laughed humorlessly. "Moriarty's?"  
>Sherlock's piercingly pale eyes flickered to him for a moment, then returned to the screen. John was struck silent for a moment.<p>

"I'm kidding, Sherlock."

"I'm not."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" The consulting detective spit, unknowingly curt. "Come now!"

John leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "So you let the sister of a murderous psychopath who very nearly _killed us _last month into the flat?"

"Pish. She broke in."

"I've told you to fix those locks at least ten times now."

"Dull."

John sighed, exasperated. "Sherlock, this game between the two of you is ridiculous! Not to mention foolhardy and dangerous and demented-"

"I prefer colorful."

"Regardless! How did you know that that woman wasn't an assassin?"

"Simple. I examined-"

"Shut up, it was rhetorical. What I mean is, how could you possibly tell it was _really_ his sister? It's just all too cliché. She may have looked like him, but when has that ever been reliable?"

Sherlock forgot about him for a moment, then glanced up from his laptop and gave a little gasp, as if suddenly remembering the question. "There were distinctive traits, hereditary and in mannerism. She knew about the pool, and Moriarty's strange…" The detective gave a vague wave of his hand, searching for the proper word. "Fixation on me. I may know very little about Jim Moriarty, but I know this; he doesn't leak information and he keeps his employees on a short leash. The girl was apt and well-suited to the job, hand picked by and under the direct supervision of our consulting criminal.

Sherlock paused, steepling his fingers and losing himself in a quieter level of thought. "But she didn't want to be there. She showed no hesitation or remorse, definitely a professional…Yet she seemed almost reluctant to carry out his orders. She said something about being his pawn, and I caught a note of insubordination…"

"You think he's using her?"

"Oh, most definitely. But to what ends?"

"Blackmail? Family guilt?"

"No, no, that's too simple. It's something far more sinister, something brilliant…But I'll figure that out later. One mystery at a time." He tapped away at his keyboard for a moment, then his face lit up in triumph. "Success! I've found our crime. Have a look."

John crossed to the armchair and glanced over his shoulder, reading the internet headline aloud.

"Drag Queen Found Dead in Nightclub Bathroom. Foul Play Suspected. That explains the cross-dressing," John mused. "Hence the suit. But what about the sedative in her lip-gloss? She said it was another clue."

I have no doubt we'll find that out soon enough," Sherlock muttered, snapping on his coat and picking his scarf up off the floor. "C'mon. We're going uptown."

"Police station?" John asked hopefully. Couldn't they, just once, do something the legal, respectable way?

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly! I know a man who runs a costume shop, owes me a favor. We should be able to find something in your size."

"Size?" John rasped.

"Well of course. We're going undercover, you and I."

"Undercover!" John cried, stuffing his wallet into his pocket and scurrying after Sherlock out the door. "Where in Gods name would _we_ go undercover?"

"The nightclub, obviously. I need to collect data. How do you feel about sequins, John?"


End file.
